Bobby, of course, remains grim-faced, and even menacingly toys with a switchblade for a bit until Crowley crows, "Cheer up, mate! We just saved the sodding world together!" Bobby gruffs something snide at that, but does politely offer Crowley a cocktail by way of celebration. Crowley takes one look at the crap Bobby pours for himself and swiftly declines. Bobby of course takes umbrage at this slight, amusingly mocks Crowley's high-falutin' accent for a bit, and eventually inquires after Crowley's cocktail of choice. "Creag," Crowley replies, "aged thirty years, at least -- I've been drinking it since grade school." Bobby takes a moment to make a mental note of that, after which he defiantly reaffirms his preference for Early Times and takes a massive swig from his glass, allowing Crowley a nice segue into this scene's actual topic. "Swill like that is gonna burn a hole in your soul," he claims. "Ooops! My soul!" he corrects himself. "But that's why you called -- our little deal?" Bobby confirms this, and tightly suggests it's time for Crowley to hold up his end of said deal by returning ownership of the soul in question to the craggy hairball in the trucker cap. Crowley would love to, of course, but it seems Bobby didn't read the fine print on his contract. Crowley snaps his fingers again, and Bobby immediately leaps to his feet in pain as a series of symbols and ancient lettering pushes itself up through the skin on his forearms and hands. As well as every other inch of his body below the neck, it turns out, as Crowley confirms when he cites the relevant clause like so: "Paragraph 18, Subsection B -- which is on your naughty bits -- states I only have to make 'best efforts' to give you back your soul." "Meaning what?" Bobby growls. "Meaning I'd like to," Crowley replies, "but I can't."